


End Zone

by analineblue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Episode: s08e23 Sacrifice, M/M, Post Episode: s08e23 Sacrifice, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 08:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/analineblue/pseuds/analineblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a moment after it’s all over where everything feels perfect. Coda to 8x23.</p>
            </blockquote>





	End Zone

**Author's Note:**

> Basically just my take on a coda to the finale, which turned out a little schmoopy in the end. ^_~ I hope you enjoy it!

There’s a moment that comes after it’s all over – he’s behind the wheel, flying down the highway. Sam’s hunched up across the seat next to him, long legs folded in front, head tilted against the window. The rain is pounding, wipers working double-time. And suddenly, everything feels _perfect_.

Dean knows that this isn’t exactly true, that things are far from perfect, but the feeling pretty much sidelines him anyway, manic and insane and overwhelming. It bubbles up from somewhere deep inside of him in a bright flash. Something like joy, maybe. Dean’s not sure he knows what that feels like, but if he did, he’s sure it would feel like this - Sam, still breathing, them driving away from that church, a little worse for wear, sure, but still _breathing_ , and the world hasn’t come apart at the seams either. Not yet, anyway. 

The car could be flying right now, floating up in the clouds, and Dean’s not sure he’d even notice. 

And then Sam coughs, deep and rasping and ugly. His face twists around in pain, and not because of it, though not entirely a coincidence, Dean wrenches the steering wheel, ninety degrees and hard, his knuckles turning white. They’re skidding along the shoulder of the road. Five hundred feet, two hundred, gravel screaming underneath the tires and scattering, running for cover. 

The car stops. 

The sky is still raining angels. 

A slower pace now, but the flashes keep coming, relentless. He should be terrified. They both should be. But when he looks over at Sam, what he sees on his brother’s face isn’t fear at all. It isn’t pain either, not really. It’s relief. 

Sam coughs again, and Dean just stares at him. Sam doesn’t say anything, doesn’t tell him not to worry, that he’s going to be okay, because Dean already knows. Sam _is_ going to be okay. This is part of the manic insanity that’s replaced the blood in Dean’s veins and the air in his lungs. It’s going to fade - soon, probably - but for now, Dean is fearless. Dangerously optimistic, maybe, but it feels _good_.

The rain is still coming down pretty hard outside, but it doesn’t matter. Dean needs air, needs water, needs ground under his feet, mud under his fingernails, needs to _stop_. They’re not running from anything anymore. Not really. He’d forgotten that for a second, maybe. 

He swings the door open; it whines a little on the hinges, but the wind carries the sound off. The rain is cold on Dean’s face, and he’s laughing, or he’s crying, or maybe both, and it’s pathetic, but it doesn’t really matter. That feeling is still bubbling up in his chest; he can’t explain it, and everything feels mixed up, and completely clear at the same time. 

He’s leaning against the door frame, rain soaking his skin, and behind his eyes, there are big, bright flashes of searing light, bombs falling all around them. 

It’s not going to be pretty, how this goes down. There’s going to be a lot of work to do. 

And when he opens his eyes again, Sam is there, moving towards him, and it gets harder to focus on anything else the closer he gets. 

Sam has stumbled over here to the driver’s side of the car, and he looks like he’s going to keel over, or pass out, or worse. It’s freezing out, and wet, and Dean must be losing it, because he’s thinking there will be time later to get warm again, to dry off, but that right now, he just wants this moment. Wants it raw like this, shivering and drenched in rain, just like up at the church. 

Sam’s mouth is tangy and coppery and salty, and the crush of their lips is messy – like they’re both half-asleep, just barely making it work, until Dean’s arm finds the curve of Sam’s waist and locks him in. With his other hand, he buries his fingers into Sam’s hair, and tells himself he’ll never give Sam grief again for keeping it so long, because right now every strand of it feels perfect, like it’s woven with fucking gold. 

There’s freezing cold rain sliding down the back of Dean’s neck, soaking the collar of his shirt, and shimmying down his spine, and the only thing he can feel is the hot press of Sam’s mouth. 

He could do this forever, is on fire with it, but Sam, _Sam_ , Dean thinks, and he pulls away a little, looking into Sam’s hollowed out face, at the exhaustion in his eyes. 

“C’mon,” Dean says, trying to maneuver around Sam’s frame to open up the back door. “We’re getting wet,” he tells him when Sam moves to protest.

“Don’t care,” Sam says, and he wraps his arm around Dean’s back. Their foreheads knock together, a flash of pain that quickly fades to warm, to _Sam_.

“Dean,” Sam says, and then his knees start to buckle and Dean is apologizing against the back of his shoulder blades, against wet, warm cotton, as he shoves Sam into the back seat. 

He closes the door behind them, and instantly everything is insulated and muted, the world shrinking again between these four doors. 

“Sorry,” Dean whispers, to the curve of Sam’s ear. “Probably should have kept going. We need to get you home.” 

“It’s okay,” Sam says, and lets out a quiet laugh. “The rain felt kind of nice.”

Dean smiles a little, and finds Sam’s hand, the one with the universe leaking out of it in hot, bright light. He wraps his fingers around Sam’s palm, gentle and firm. 

“You know this doesn’t change anything. What I said up at the church,” Dean says, his voice suddenly urgent. He doesn’t need to say anything else, he knows that, but… He wants to. Wants to make sure Sam understands. That he understands, too, maybe. 

“Nothing is different,” Dean says. “You and me, it’s always been like this.” 

“I know,” Sam says, and he twists around until he’s facing Dean. 

“You didn’t know,” Dean says, and he’s really not upset, not anymore, but Sam’s face darkens anyway. “But it’s not your fault,” Dean says quickly. “You didn’t know, because I didn’t tell you, right?” 

“I’m not an idiot, Dean. I knew. Sort of,” Sam says, and there’s a thin smile on his lips. “Maybe I needed to forget for a while, to get as far as I did…” 

“I should have stopped you sooner.” 

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t.” 

Dean stares at Sam for a long moment, and then he reaches for his shoulders, and pulls him close, pulls him to his chest like he used to when Sam was seven, and the right size for Dean’s armpit and noogies. Given Sam’s current size, it’s awkward at best, but they slot into place eventually, both stretched out as far as they can in the corner of cramped backseat, Sam’s head against Dean’s shoulder, his chest.

“Sammy,” Dean says quietly, into Sam’s hair. “You don’t have to prove anything to me, you know that, right? You’ve never had to prove anything to me.”

Sam makes a sort of sniffling cough against Dean’s shoulder at that, and Dean squeezes him a little tighter. 

“What you did with these trials, all of it. I’m really proud of you. Of my little brother. But it doesn’t change a damn thing. I’ve always been proud of you.” 

“Thanks,” Sam says, and Dean can barely hear him over the rain pattering against the roof and the windows. “For believing in me. And for stopping me.”

And there are a million things Dean could say to this, but he thinks maybe he’s already said them, which can’t be right, but it almost feels true, and what he settles on is, “Well, that’s what I’m here for, right?”

Sam’s teeth are chattering, and after a bit of effort to move out from under Sam’s weight, Dean shrugs out of his jacket. He tucks it up under Sam’s chin as they slide back into place. 

He’s already done it before, back up at the church, but he can’t help himself – he moves his fingers over Sam’s head, checking for bumps, for blood, for a fever, and he’s not sure if it’s a good or a bad sign that Sam just sighs in response, that it’s belated, when he mumbles, “I’m okay”, that he turns his head into Dean’s touch instead of away from it. 

“Yep,” Dean says, as his heart hammers up against his ribcage, “you’re going to be fine.” 

“It’s warm,” Sam mumbles, and presses his face into Dean’s shoulder, giving Dean a mouthful of hair as he shifts. “Your jacket.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, swiping wet Sam Hair away from his lips, and there’s that manic feeling again, thrumming through him.

“You, too,” Sam says. “You’re warm. It’s nice. We should stay here…” 

And okay, Sam’s definitely delirious, but it’s fine, Dean thinks, everything is fine.

“That’s right,” he says, and feels Sam chest rise and fall against him, a little shuddering at first, but it evens out after a moment. 

And just like that, Dean knows he doesn’t need the air outside, or the grass under his feet, or the rain on his face to remind him that they’ve really made it, that they’ve come through to the other side – all he needs is right here in this back seat next to him. 

And at least for the time being, Sam’s head is pressed against Dean’s shoulder, his mouth half-open, and he’s snoring. It’s the most beautiful thing Dean thinks he’s ever seen.

“That’s right, Sammy,” he whispers. “We’re going to stay right here.”

**end**


End file.
